Letter to Lucien

Author's Note I realise that technically this story cheats a bit with the "first child" element of the prompt. But I was so involved in it I couldn't give up or change it - I hope I'm excused!

My darling Lucien, my big-eyed wriggling boy,

     The conflict of emotions within me is like a sky at sunrise, or at the moment just before sunrise, when all manner of gold and pink and nascent blue blend with the grey of the lingering night and the smudge of impending stormclouds. 

     But I don’t suppose you’re interested in fancy words and similes about skies at dawn, and a conflict of emotions. 

     If I could, I would promise you a life, or at any rate, a childhood, full of nothing but joy and play and love. I would willingly sacrifice and bargain with all of my hopes and fears and wishes to grant you that. But I know I can’t. 

     You see, Lucien, that’s what all mothers know and few want to admit. Perhaps they don’t realise it at once, but realisation comes soon enough, and then it’s over with, and that knowledge can never go away. We can’t always put everything right. We can’t always find the right things to do and the right words to say. We are just as uncertain and imperfect as everyone else, and can be just as impatient and just as inconsistent. I discovered that a thousand times over with Gwen.

     We don’t deserve the unthinking adoration you give us (or we like to think you give us) until you reach a certain age, but maybe we don’t deserve the hostility and conflict that comes after. That generally passes, too, and things settle down, I suppose.

     I will make mistakes. I will make the most horrendous mistakes, and hope that, in time, you will forgive me. I even worry about your name, but that was decided on so long ago (though it seems like an eye blink and a heart beat) – Lucia for a girl, Lucien for a boy. 

     We have been given a private room, and they are keeping us in for a couple of days, unlike most of the others, though I can’t see any real reason for it, as you are perfectly healthy – a chubby-legged, rosy cheeked, lusty-lunged lad who will be a handful, I know it. But a nice handful! Your hands already make determined little starfish shapes and that grip means business. 

     Yes, we are being treated like some special people. I don’t like that, Lucien, though of course what I really mean is that I don’t like the reason for it. And that is the most horrendous understatement. It will be a long while before you understand the meaning of words like understatement, but one day I will tell you all about it. I promise you I will. I was about to say when I know you are ready, but of course there is no guarantee I will know. I could be too early, or too late, or fail to find the right words, perhaps because there aren’t really any right words to find.

     One thing you will learn, Lucien, is that there will be things you swear you will never do, and would never dream of doing, and that you cannot understand when others do them, but do not depend on that. 

     Oh, I never condemned anyone else who made that choice, and went down that avenue, but there was still a part of me that found it strange and – yes, I may as well admit it, vaguely distasteful, and leading to all kinds of trouble later. And though I’ve never been more than a wishy-washy kind of feminist, yes, I did feel the faintest hint of a hackle rising.

     That was until Gwen brought up the subject. She and Arthur had been trying for a baby – of course I knew that, although, despite being close, we weren’t the kind of mother and daughter who brought up their gynaecological issues at any opportunity. Like most people in that position they presumed it was no big deal at first, but bit by bit they realised it was. They had as many courses of fertility treatment as their local authority would allow, paid for another instead of having a holiday that year, and, though we had our misgivings, Frank and I said we would pay for another, but Gwen gave me that sad, almost impassive look, that is beyond tears and raging against fate. “It would do no good,” she said, quietly.

     Now I may once have been one of those people who pointed out that there were thousands of children looking for a loving home and that adoption was the kindest and most sensible route. And, of course, for some it is. But Gwen said, “I know this sounds awful and don’t think I’m proud of myself for saying it. But you know yourself that it’s practically impossible to adopt a new born nowadays, and even though I know the bond can be incredibly strong – yes, I know Auntie Leah was adopted – I want a baby who’s my own, mine and Arthur’s, and who has our blood and our families’ blood in their veins. Does that make me a bad person?”

     Something about the way she asked for reassurance cut me to the deepest layer of my emotions. I hugged her, and said, of course it didn’t.

     And this is what I must tell you, Lucien (you are sleeping now, making little snuffling noises and seeming to smile, though I know all the science tells that you cannot be!). It was always my decision. I was the one who proposed it and Gwen was the one who needed persuading. I pointed out that I’d had her when I was very young, and was still of childbearing age – many women had babies far later on in life. I was in good health and though, of course, not the ideal solution or what anyone would have wanted or expected, it might be the “best of a bad job”. Yes, I used those words, Lucien, and I apologise!

     It was Arthur who first used the word, the word we would have to get used to. “Surrogacy? But Elizabeth, nobody would expect you to …..”

     “We’d never dream of it!” Gwen said, but I could see a light dawning in her eyes, a light that I thought had been put out forever.

     “You didn’t expect me to,” I pointed out. “The impetus came from me. At least think it over!”

     She thought it over. They thought it over. And one thing I did know – once I had made that offer it could never be rescinded. 

     We confided in a few close family and friends. It would have been unrealistic to keep it secret, especially as I began to “show” as my own mother quaintly put it. Nobody condemned us or said we were mad, at least not to our faces, but we knew full well it wasn’t universally approved of, to put it mildly. But though we accepted that some people would know, one thing we all agreed on was that we would never be the subject of a TV documentary or a magazine article, and exactly the same thing applies now. Your are our boy, Lucien, not someone else’s entertainment or talking point, even if they mean well. 

     And I am your Mummy, Lucien, though that wasn’t how it was meant to be. At least for the first few years of your life, I was going to be Granny Lizzie. But that’s not how it turned out. 

     You know nothing of this, dear lad, and it will be a long time until I tell you, though that, too, you must be told. 

     Two weeks ago, Gwen and Arthur were returning from a trip to the supermarket. Just that. Something as prosaic as that. Not a trip to the theatre to see a wonderful new play, or a trip to the countryside to watch the sun set over the hills. I doubt it would make anything any easier if that applied, but sometimes she sheer banality of it gnaws and grinds at me. The other driver had a massive stroke at the wheel – I bear him no ill will, and suppose I hope he will recover and be able to have some kind of a quality of life, but I am not going to lie. He does not consciously enter my thoughts that often. I suppose if anything I am thinking more of his family, but even they are shadows at the edge. 

     The police officers couldn’t have been kinder, but there is no way on God’s earth to make such a thing any easier. By now it was blatantly obvious I was approaching my “time” – another word of my Mum’s, and that must have made them even more worried. I expect they thought it was an “on the change” baby – they had no reason to think otherwise.

     Folk rallied round. The way they do. And some of the people who had been the most dubious were the most helpful. Whether that was their conscience smiting them, or realising that it had given them perspectives on things, or both, I don’t know. 

     Well, Lucien, that’s about all I have to say at the moment, except of course it isn’t. You know that we love you with all our impatient, imperfect, inconsistent hearts and souls, your Daddy – who was going to be your Grandpa Reuben – and I.

     Sleep on, my darling.

     Your loving

     Mummy